


The Telling of Shigir

by Nico_Weetch



Series: The Collected Tellings of Shigir and Other Changeling Folktales [6]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Can be read as a stand alone fic, Changeling Folklore, Excerpt Piece, Father-Son Relationship, Folktales, Gen, Missing Scene, Shigir Stories, knife family, original lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-26 03:01:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19759246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nico_Weetch/pseuds/Nico_Weetch
Summary: As this series focuses on the growing mythology around the Changeling Folk Hero Shigir excerpts from other fics that mention, or take the time to tell, a Shigir Story will crop up. This is one of those occasions.That way everything Shigir related can be found in one place.This is an excerpt from Ch11 of my other ficTerpsichore - The Comedy of the Danse Macabre - ACT ISo, major spoilers if you haven't read that far.Otherwise this can also be read as entirely stand alone as well!For Context: This takes place in S1 Ep 24 Angor Management.Jim is quite sleep deprived after having stayed up all night making sure Angor doesn't attack Strickler.Strickler and Jim are waiting for Draal to come back with supplies to booby-trap the house.Tensions are understandably high





	The Telling of Shigir

The changeling was unsure how much time had passed. Only that he refilled his pipe again since Draal’s departure.

Strickler’s back leaned against one of the backyard boulders. Slowly feeling the stone warm with the intensity of the California sun. His jacket forgotten somewhere on the veranda.

It was always pleasant, recharging even, basking in the sun. Yet as much as Strickler would have pleasantly spent the remainder of the decade leaning against said boulder, he had to move on. He finalized this decision with a final pull from his pipe.

Strickler knocked his pipe against one of the backyard garden boulders. Cleaned out the bowl with his thumb, and hung the pipe on his lip before re-entering the Lake household with a calmer head. 

The screen door creaked slowly to a close behind him. Emphasizing the silence in the house. For a moment Strickler humored the idea that Jim might have taken a break as well. Putting a hold on whatever he was doing upstairs.

This idea was promptly shattered by comically rhythmic thudding coming from the second floor. It sounded suspiciously like books toppling over.

Hands in his pockets, Strickler made his way upstairs. He followed the sounds of swears to the archway of Jim’s room.

Jim was rubbing his head angrily, staring at several books and an astronomy globe.

Strickler politely cleared his throat to get Jim’s attention.

As he waited Strickler gave an idle unthinking swirl of his pipe. It took a full rotation for the changeling to realize he still had his pipe out. Strickler’s brows popped up. Eyes practically crossing as he eyed it over his hooked nose.

Wanting to retain what very little semblance of a role model he had left, Strickler hurriedly fumbled to hide his pipe away into his coat pocket before Jim could notice.

“Yeah?” went Jim, not bothering to look up.

“I see you’ve gotten a head start with the UV lights.”

“Yup.”

Strickler eyed the tangled mess of wires, and extension cords, and followed the wires’s path that led to a single six outlet cord power-strip.

“That’s a fire hazard waiting to happen, Jim.”

“What?” Jim finally lifted his head, and followed Strickler’s gaze to the power-strip “No it’s not. That’s what it’s made for.”

“And you plan on just using one outlet for all of this?” Strickler gestured broadly to the nest of wires and extensions.

“Duh.” went Jim, not wanting to admit he might be in the wrong.

Strickler inwardly sighed, “Jim, I know you have more common sense than that. You could get electrocuted.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Jim muttered, rubbing his eye sleepily. Reminded of a certain birthday incident with a stalkling.

“What was that?” Strickler asked, genuinely not hearing him.

“Nothing.”

“And why aren’t you using rubber gloves?”

Jim tilted his head back and released a cathartically loud groan of, “Overkill my dude.”

“Or do you fancy the idea of glowing up like one of Edison’s poor pachyderms.”

Jim squinted, looking like he was struggling with one of Lenora Janeth’s mathematical problems when she’d pepper in details of iambic pentameter “That’s…not…that’s not how ‘glow up’ is used.” 

“Ah.” Strickler scratched his wrist awkwardly. Tentatively, testing conversational waters, he asked “How is it used then?”

Jim examined a wire. “Just, google it, dude. I’m busy.”

“Not without protective gloves you’re not! Now march Mr. Lake!” Jim grumpily stared, but didn’t move. Cooly, a smile stretched on Strickler’s face. “Or would you rather I root around your house and get them for you?”

At this Jim’s lips became a thin line. The teen dropped the wires and stomped off with a huff.

Strickler held his smug smile until Jim was around the corner, out of sight. Then slouched against the door frame, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

“Heavens to Betsy.” was all Strickler could bring himself to comment under his breath.

It was clear to the changeling suggesting Jim to get some rest would be futile. He’d have more luck convincing oil and water to be better friends. And so, again, Strickler postponed the suggestion.

When Jim came back with the gloves, he returned to see Strickler sitting quietly on the floor, untangling the knots of wires.

“And where’s _your_ gloves?”

“Oh! Thank you for bringing some.” Strickler smiled brightly.

Jim rolled his eyes with an overly dramatic sigh, then lightly tossed the gloves Strickler’s way. Strickler leaned to pick one up, raising it in thanks. Tiredly, Jim rubbed his eyes again and went off to get another pair with a, “Yeah, yeah.”

Nothing more was said between them as the two silently worked with the wiring, and evenly proportion of electronic outlet usage. Wiring it in a way so that the UV lights would turn on with one light-switch instead of multiple ones.

Jim had yawned multiple times since then, and the changeling politely ignored every instance. It was Jim’s stomach grumbling in protest that was the last straw.

“Alright. I’m calling it.”  
“Calling what? It’s a UV light.” Jim snarked while stretching his arm around the dresser to reach for the plug.

“‘It’ as in ‘this’” Strickler gestured generically around the room. From the neatly set wires, to the stacked books, and the set aside astronomy globe (that looked very similar to the one in Strickler’s inner office).“As in- a break Jim. We’re taking a much needed break.”

“What?” came Jim’s preoccupied voice from behind the dresser.

“Oh for heaven’s-” Strickler pushed the dresser to the side, giving the teen more wiggle room to successfully reach the plug. He waited for Jim’s undivided attention before repeating himself. “A break, Atlas.”

“I don’t need a break.” rebutted Jim who tried to fight back another traitorous yawn. “ _I_ am fine.” he said, the lack of a night’s sleep more evident than a flickering neon sign.

Strickler raised his brows, unamused “Clearly.”

“We still have so much to do!” sat up Jim, who’s eyes slow blinked to find the next task.

“We’ve done plenty,” Strickler tried to explain patiently. Sitting himself down at Jim’s desk chair.“And it’s not even noon.”

“And we can do more!”

“With what supplies? Draal’s not even back yet. You haven’t even slept a wink.”

“And who’s fault is that?!”

Strickler closed his mouth, and nodded acceptingly. The teen was right. “Mine.”

Jim lowered his arms, his chest deflating. It wasn’t the response Jim was anticipating. In fact he expected a lectured defense. But not this. “Uh…right, so-”

“-So I’ll make the sandwiches.” countered the changeling with a clap, rubbing his hands together as he crossed Jim’s room to the door.

“ _Excuse me_?? We don’t have time-”

“-I’m hungry.”

“Well _I’m_ not.” protested Jim crossing his arms. Jim’s stomach on the other hand, did not back Jim’s statement as it gave a disloyal grumble of its own.

Strickler gave Jim a poignant look. “Riiight.” he drawled before brightly asking, “Do you have a cucumber?” while leaving the room.

Strickler made a point to not give Jim much room to respond. Talking as he went down the stairs nearly two steps at a time, “You know what? Don’t bother answering. I think I’ve got the nack of your kitchen by now.”

“I _do not_ like what that sentence implies. The heck do you need a cucumber for? Hey! _Hey_!!” Jim called from the top of the stairs. “I’m talking to you old man!”

“What? Sorry, I left my hearing aide at home.” called back Strickler from the kitchen. He made a point to loudly open cupboards and drawers as he spoke “OOOoooOoo look at all these _utensils_!”

Jim gasped, and involuntarily placed a hand to his chest.

“Do you like your bread microwaved?”

“Don’t you _dare_!” yelled Jim, rushing down the stairs in a fury. He jumped the last four steps and sided to a sliding halt at the kitchen’s entrance.

“Oh, hello there Jim.” smiled Strickler innocently from the sink as he rinsed tomatoes under running water. “Good of you to _turnip_.”

“My kitchen” panted Jim, “My rul-” he squinted at Strickler, then at the tomato with increasing offense, “Did you just _pun_???”

Strickler grinned like a cat.

Jim waved his hand, quickly backtracking, “My kitchen, my rules- no bread microwaving.”

“Microwave bread?” blinked the changeling, pretending not to understand, “Now that _is_ a silly notion.”

Jim fought to keep his serious gaze despite another traitorous opinion coming from the teen’s stomach. “Why do you need cucumbers?”

“For cucumber and butter sandwiches, but that was before I saw the tomatoes and panini presser. Unless you had your heart set on cucumbers.” Strickler shrugged. “I’m fine either way.”

“Panini presser? That’s always a hassle to clean. No, no - now the mini grill is what you want to use.” said Jim, cooking instincts getting the better of him.

“Oh?” grinned Strickler. A cat like twinkle in his eye. Content his plan seemed to be working.

“Scooch.” Jim added as he went to wash his hands.

Strickler stepped to the side. “Is there a specific cheese-?”

“Well there’s this loaf that needs to be used before it goes bad that’s pretty thick, but the crust is just-” Jim made a dramatic cartoonish gargling sound with flailing hands. Droplets of water flew everywhere.

“Sounds horrid.” said Strickler exceedingly amused. The changeling flicked a bit of water off his nose.

“It’s good - like _good_ good” said Jim already drying his hands and searching for the bread to slice. “I’d hate for it to go bad. It absorbs really well - if that makes sense - so it needs a heavy cheese like mozzarella or gouda.”

“You gouda be-”

“Don’t.” Jim warned with the point of his bread knife. It took everything for Strickler not to laugh. “Just for that? We’re going with mozzarella. Which is in the left drawer, in the fridge.” directed Jim.

“Aye aye.” nodded Strickler in good humor.

He sat the tomatoes by Jim on the cutting board, and moved towards the fridge, fetching the cheese. The changeling could practically smell it through its plastic container. It reminded Strickler of the seaside, of summer, and green waters. “Anything else?” asked the changeling helpfully. He reached for a knife, “I can help cut-”

“Nope!” waved Jim with the bread knife again. “Your knife privileges are _revoked_ , my dude.”

“That’s hardly fair, you do all the work - the point of the sandwiches was for you _not_ to work more-”

“ _Revoked_.”

Strickler snorted an awkward laugh, “Is this because of the steak dinner-?”

“ _Yes_.” Jim then made a ‘duh’ like expression. “Among other things, _yes_!”

Strickler raised his hands in a show of relenting, “Fair enough.” And stepped away from the counter, the knives, and cutting board.

“Good.”

An uncomfortable silence set in the kitchen. Which, as on guard as Jim was (and had every right to be), disheartened the sleep deprived teen. After all, food was about coming together. To coming to terms despite differences. Or so, that was chef Jim’s mini philosophy.

By the time the tomatoes were sliced, the bread was oiled, and the mini oven pre-heated, Jim cleared his throat slightly. “You, ah, could pick some basil leaves. If that’s cool.”

Strickler lifted his head from his palm, realizing he was being talked to. His mind snapping back to the present, and away from some past anecdote. “Yes?”

Again, Jim pointed with the knife. Gesturing to the little basil plant that lived by the kitchen window. Currently collecting sun. “Rinse them, then lightly press them against a paper towel. After that, just, chill.”

“Ah.” Strickler slid off a stool, and obliged in silence. Picking a few large leaves from the basil plant. The herb smelled luxuriously good. Bringing an aroma of Mediterranean summer nights into the kitchen.

“Um..” started Jim breaking the silence again. He felt slightly guilty for releasing his inner Gordon Ramsey. “Cooking isn’t ‘ _work_ ’ work, it’s…relaxing. Helps me think.” The teen leaned forward to try and catch the changeling’s facial expression. Reproachfully Jim added, “Sorr-”

“Not to worry.” Strickler reassured while keeping his attention on the basil.“One chef per cutting board is quite sufficient…and, I did attack you with a knife.” Strickler presented the lightly pressed basil. “You’re within your right to dictate and revoke in your kitchen, Chef Jim.”

Jim smiled, enjoying how the title ‘Chef Jim’ sounded. Even if it did come from Strickler.

“Thanks.” said Jim, with badly masked pride. He took the basil and set it aside for later.

“Do you mind if I make some tea?”

“Oh! Uh, sure. Go for it.” said Jim. Strickler nodded a ‘thank you’ and started to do so. The changeling got as far as the kettle when Jim added “I mean, I don’t mind.”

Strickler smiled. Then, upon considering a box of chamomile tea, asked, “Would you like some?”

“Um.”

During Jim’s hesitation Strickler prepped a defending argument that ‘no he wasn’t going to try to poison him’. But the anticipated accusation didn’t come.

“Sure.” said Jim at last.

“Chamomile alright?”

“Nice try,” went Jim, not looking away from his work “that’ll make me drowsy.”

“Irish Breakfast it is then.”

Obnoxiously, Strickler rattled the Irish Breakfast box in Jim’s peripheral. And made a show of removing two packets. So to make sure Jim knew the changeling wasn’t going to pull a fast one and use the chamomile regardless.

“Dude! I get it.” Jim said in an exasperated laugh that did little to hide the sleep the teen kept fighting off, “I’d like to think I can trust you with _tea_.”

“It’s the accent isn’t it?”

“I’d say it helps. Now would you please stop? You’re upsetting the cheese.” went Jim, readjusting the cheese’s placement.

Strickler bit back a laugh, and very seriously bowed out of Jim’s self designated cooking area.

In that, now more comfortable, silence, Strickler observed Jim’s astute cooking dedication. The commitment in cooking something as simple as a sandwich. 

How when adding pepper Jim would stop to smell the mixed aroma the pepper, basil, and cheese gave off. Gauging if it needed more.

It added a new layer to Strickler’s mental image of Jim waking up early to prep Barbara’s and Toby’s meals. A topic that was brought up back when Jim and Strickler used to talk more frequently.

Looking around the vicinity, even passed the view of the kitchen nook, Strickler tried to imagine just how young did such a process of helping out around the house start? Was it immediately after James left? Was it before Barbara noticed what Jim was trying to do?

Strickler glanced back at Jim. Watched as Jim hummed what could very well be the Gunrobot theme song off key. How Jim appraised his work like a sculptor, tongue sticking out comically included.

Sympathetically, Strickler smiled. Happy there was a passion in this work at least.

“I know I mentioned it before” spoke up Strickler from by the stove, “but I applaud your dedication to cooking Jim.”

“Well I can’t say I don’t have fun with it.”

“With the right training I’m sure you could even make a French king weep.”

“What king?” snarked Jim.

“Oohhoo!” laughed Strickler appreciatively with a small finger wag. “Excellent history jokes aside, Atlas, have you continued to consider your future outside of Trollhunting?”

Jim turned away from the mini-grill. The aroma of olive oil and basil filled the kitchen with a soft crackling sound.

“Surely you’ve considered life after Trollhunting. Colleges? Universities? Careers?”

Jim continued to stare at the changeling with a baffled look. As if Strickler was speaking in another language aside from English.

Jim was told so often that a Trollhunter’s duty ended at death. In a youthful nihilistic sort of way Jim often wondered if that meant he didn’t have to worry about college.

College, the real sword of Damocles over any teenager’s head.

“Is that still, possible?” Jim asked slowly with a peppered semblance of hope to have a problem as normal as college back in his life. “Like, even as a Trollhunter?”

It broke Strickler’s heart.

“Of course Jim. No war, no matter how long, can last forever.”

Jim made a face, a contortion of trying to say something and also repress out right yawning as a statement. Jim failed, and yawned with an expression of a shocked gargoyle.

Strickler politely ignored the yawn, and added with a patient smile “That also includes fantastical wars that have lasted for millennia.”

“That’s so _long_ though.”

Strickler nodded, and fixed his eyes on one of the stove top burners, “It’s, necessary to believe there’s an eventual light at the end of a long tunnel. It can help, keep you marching forward.” Strickler’s eyes watched the flames under the kettle. “It’s a fragile hopeful thought, sure, but to a soldier stuck in a rut; trench, barricade, or otherwise…It’s a comforting thought. All things must come to an end. And with it a chance to move on.”

Jim scratched his cheek, letting Strickler’s words sink in. He glanced at the sandwiches thoughtfully. Then leaned against the counter.

Strickler looked back at the sleepy teen, and leaned to the side some so to catch Jim’s thoughtful eye. “It’s healthy to imagine life after war. What you’d do afterwards. To _plan_ for it. Without that, things could start to seem…dangerously hopeless.”

“Even the word hopeless is not devoid of hope.” recited Jim.

“That’s…” Strickler stared impressed, “very wisely put Young Atlas.”

Jim’s mouth twitched. Once again torn between enjoying the praise and hurt from hearing who the praise was coming from. In a show of nonchalance Jim shrugged and thumbed his nose, “Eh, I can’t take the credit for it. It’s something Blinky said a few times.”

“Ah.” Strickler nodded curtly, “Well, it’s still a good phrase to learn from.”

Jim stared at Strickler for a bit, then looked at his sandwiches on the mini-grill. “Thanks, by the way. For…erm…never mentioning that Blinky isn’t really one of the school’s guidance councilors.” Jim rubbed the back of his neck. He hated to admit it, but it could have taken Strickler a few short words to fire holes in Jim’s lie. “That could have made things…”

“Awkward?”

“To say the least. Things could have gone south _real_ quick with-” Jim cut himself off from mentioning his mom. If he could help it, Jim wanted to avoid bringing her up with Strickler. Jim’s brows furrowed, “You’re a lot of things, but at least you’re not a narc.”

Strickler’s cordial chuckle was borderline self deprecating in timber, “You’re too kind.”

The kettle on the stove started to whistle.

Enemy or not, to Jim it felt nice to try and keep the conversation amicable. “So, what did you hope for? To do after all of this? Live in some villainous castle all your own?”

“Close.” Strickler snorted. He wistfully poured two cups of tea. “There was a time I considered tending the Strickler family grove. Milk?”

“Oh. Uh, no thanks.” said Jim partially thrown off. Thankfully the teen accepted the handed cup of tea. “There’s a family grove?”

“It’s old. But yes.”

“What happened to change your mind?” Jim stopped himself from snarking a remark about staying loyal to Gunmar. Or something about power.

“The plot of land is an apartment complex now…and part of a supermarket.” he chuckled into his tea and explained, “It used to be a _big_ grove.”

With a little tap against the tea cup, Strickler suppressed the memory of him returning from his station at Hadrian’s wall. Cackling all the way at how it was such a debacle, with a new found pride against the inhabitants of the isle to be able to resist the Romans.

Only to return to the Strickler family’s property and find it repossessed by Romans.

The scare he gave the new tenants. Looking like a rogue legionnaire. The bitter disillusionment against humanity that drove him to eventually be part of a Gumm-Gumm camp in Gaul. With a bitter promise of ‘I will return’.

Strickler was only a few years older than Jim at the time.

“Oh.” went Jim, stumped yet again. Unable to decipher the look on Strickler’s face. “I’m, sorry to hear that.”

“Eh it’s sad but true.” shrugged the changeling. Glancing back at Jim, Strickler gave a gentler smile, “But you’re very kind to say that. Luckily there’s still hope for a sailboat.”

Jim smirked a voiceless laugh “So that’s all you hope for now? A sailboat?”

Strickler hid his smirk behind his tea cup. Saying before taking a sip “Among other things.” The tea was hot, but worth the mild burn. Strickler lowered the cup while drawing little circles on the handle. “Careful it’s hot.” cautioned Strickler seeing Jim about to attempt a sip of tea as well.

Jim eyed the billows of steam rising from the cup and thought better of it.

“But we’re not talking about me right now.” said Strickler, “What do _you_ want to do?”

“Oh.” went Jim. The teen sniffed the air, then hurriedly said “Oh! The sandwiches!” and quickly pivoted towards the mini-grill.

His sneakers giving a sharp squeak in the process. Catching the perfect moment to flip the sandwiches over just as one side started to exit the perfect golden shade and enter a more burnt state.

Hearing the oil sizzle and pressing on the bread with a spatula Jim smiled, “I like cooking, like, _really_ like cooking. And the idea of going to a culinary school is…nice. Gotta follow that passion you know? And…” Jim smiled at the sandwiches. The more he spoke the more excited Jim became about the idea.

At some point he had to place the spatula down and pace in front of the mini-grill.

Strickler’s eyes followed him in amusement the more animated the teen became with gusto “I like the idea that people can get happy when they eat my cooking. That no matter what they’re going through, one meal could help make their day better. And, and, _I_ could be a part of that!”

Jim looked at his own hands. They carried tiny nicks and burn scars (nothing too severe of course), of countless culinary trial and errors. The teen wore them like badges of progress. As much as he cooked to help his mom, he also cooked for himself.

“I taught myself to be this good, and I want to be able to get better. To learn how to do better!” with culinary pride Jim sleepily blurted out, almost erratic “I mean it’s like, it’s stronger than me! So you know how much I considered ruining your steak when you came over?”

Strickler choked on his tea. He wiped some residual tea off his turtleneck with a little shake of his head “And _that’s_ why no one should trust a chef to poison a meal.”

“But I didn’t!” Jim happily rambled, rubbing one eye, “Well also because one; I’ve seen way too many sitcoms to know something could go wrong, and mom would end up with your steak. Oof It was tempting. And two; I wanted you to eat that steak and _weep_. Regretting your life choices in the process.”

“I assure you, I did. Even with the leftovers.”

Jim giggled a sleepy “Nice” with an added finger gun for emphasis. He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. The smirk on his face started to fade the more he stared at the sizzling sandwiches. By the time he finished disguising a yawn as a sneeze, the smirk was gone.

“But it’s different being the Trollhunter. It’s…not an ordinary situation. Once you’re a Trollhunter, you’re a Trollhunter until-”

“-Until you’re not.” Strickler helpfully added in the face of Jim’s grim expression.

Strickler looked at his own reflection in the tea, and decided to set the cup down. Focusing more on Jim’s expression. An expression that was hard to read.It was somewhere along the lines of exhausted bitterness, and despondency. It aged the teen greatly.

“Yeah.” said Jim hoarsely. He cleared his throat, “But despite that, I, I still like it. I like that being the Trollhunter means helping. Like it’s more than a calling…” Jim fiddled with his hands, hoping to find the answers in one of his culinary callouses, “I don’t know.” shrugged the teen, unable to articulate this huge feeling he felt. A feeling bigger than himself. Like a blade of grass facing off against a tornado.

Strickler nodded morosely. He set aside the teacup. His frown heavy with thought.

Angor was right when he said Strickler had a father’s love for the teen. No matter how much Strickler attempted to deny it at the time. And it hurt the changeling to see Jim like so. No matter his personal opinion on Trollhunting.

“It takes a mountainously strong calling for a firefighter to become a firefighter. To take up that mantel. To face against insurmountable odds, and dangers. From crumbling buildings, to smoke, to walls of flame that can reach 10 meters high! Quite literally going up against forces of nature. That doesn’t make the firefighter only a firefighter.” Strickler gave an encouraging sad kind of smile “Even firefighters dream about the banana bread they want to bake when they get home. The restaurant they want to open.”

It warmed Strickler to see Jim laugh tiredly at that.

But the smile that came with that laugh slacked. Like ice cream on a summer’s day. “But the Trollhunter is different than a firefighter.”

“Up until now the role of Trollhunter was taken up by trolls.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Are you a troll, Young Atlas?”

“N-no. But-”

Strickler politely held up a hand to pause Jim’s line of thought. Jim deflated.

The changeling folded his hands together, “No. You are not a troll.” there was a glint in the changeling’s eye. As if seeing some key secret that Jim’s been alluding. Jim would often see this expression when students came up to Strickler in class for questions. “Then what are you?”

Jim sighed, and eyed the corner of the counter, “A human.”

A disappointed tutting noise came from Strickler. The good humored twinkle still in the changeling’s eye. “ _Oh_ , a bit more enthusiasm than _that_ , if you please.”

Jim looked back with an intensely perplexed look. He was so ready to hear about how humanity could be a set back for this very troll role. The alternative surprised him. As if someone came up to Jim and tried to convince him the secret of the universe was cheese. And although that may or may not be the case someday. It was hard to grasp.

To which, at the sight of Jim’s continued disbelief, Strickler enthusiastically continued, “Humanity’s _only_ been to the bloody moon and back. There’s a rover on _Mars_!”

Slowly Jim’s smile started to return. Like a sunflower turning.

“There’s been so many technological advances in the span of a century and a half that my brain is dizzy. Yesterday I’m learning what the telegraph is, today I’m emailing a friend in Calcutta.”

“Pretty sure it’s called Kolkata now.” corrected Jim sheepishly.

“You see?” Strickler gawked, laughing in the process “I just can’t keep up! Do you know what trolls use to get in contact with each other at long distances?”

Jim, with a goggling smile, shook his head ‘no’.

“ _Nothing_.” went Strickler with a wheeze, “Apart from pieces of rubble being written on and sent through a fetch- and if you have more than three things to say you better bring a lot of rocks! Trolls _still_ have to physically travel to one another, or have a currier, to get a message across. They have, who knows _how_ much knowledge hoarded, and they’re still in the 1700’s when it comes to communication.”

“Are…are you trying to tell me, you think humans are better than trolls?”

The changeling let out a long whistle, “That’s a conversation for another day, Young Atlas. Both are terrible and great in their own way - and that’s the quick answer to that. What I’m _saying_ , is there’s never been a human Trollhunter, and with it - there’s never been human ways of solving problems attempted. Before now at least.” gestured Strickler with a touch of unrestrained paternal pride.

“Oh.”

“Would a troll think of Tom and Jerry? Of a telephone? UV lights?”

Jim scratched the back of his head, “No..I guess not.”

“Now, let me ask you again. Are you a troll?”

“No.”

“Then what are you?”

“A human.” responded Jim with the smallest upturned smirk.

“Now we’re cooking with gas.” went Strickler wringing his hands together. The changeling leaned forward, “Enter double Jeopardy;” Jim groaned, but Strickler continued all the same, “ _Who_ are you, Atlas?”

“Who?”

“Yes come on then, there’s no need to impersonate an owl. Who are you?”

“I’m hum-”

“We’ve established the ‘what’, thank you. _Who_ are you?”

“I’m Jim.”

“Once more please. And do try to have more conviction than someone recovering from a coma.”

“I’m Jim.” said the teen a little sterner than he intended. “Just Jim Lake. So what does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything! Absolutely everything. Toby is a human, but I’m sure he’d make different choices as Trollhunter. Claire is human, and she’d make different choices. Just like I can tell you Kanjigar and Deya were two very different Trollhunters despite being trolls.”

“And your point _iiiissss_???” Jim singsonged.

“Human or not, troll or not, it doesn’t matter _what_ you are. It’s _who_ you are that will always make the biggest difference. Have you ever heard of a human Trollhunter named Jim Lake?”

“No.”

“Me neither.” cheered Strickler, raising his teacup “And I’ll gladly drink to that.” and the changeling did so, finishing the rest of his tea.

“Huh…that’s…huh..”

“A statement and a half, I’m sure.” said Strickler with a modest laugh.

Jim’s brows furrowed, surprised as he listened to himself say, “Thanks for that.” so easily. Just as easily as his breathing now felt, now that a heavy weight was off of Jim’s thoughts.

As easily as how he imagined and wished Strickler was there to rebuttal every time Vendel commented on Jim’s humanity. To have someone who experienced humanity and troll kind in his corner.

Distantly it terrified Jim. It reminded the teen how Strickler was so easy to talk to. But that was before Jim was the Trollhunter.

The frustration from before started to return.

Jim turned back to the mini-grill to shut it off. Masking a yawn, and plating the sandwiches.

“I suppose I do say the occasional right thing.” Strickler mused, unaware of Jim’s thoughts. Unaware at how the atmosphere shifted. Returning to that of walking on a knife’s edge.

For Jim didn’t want to thank Strickler. Didn’t want to think about how easy it was to talk to him. He wanted to stay angry at the literal two faced creature he used to look up to.

Strickler was his enemy, someone Jim needed to take down.

Yet Jim found himself angrier at himself than the changeling. Angry at how he could have so easily momentarily forgotten Strickler was his enemy. Angry at how strongly Jim wished _this_ could have been their dynamic since the beginning of Jim’s Trollhunting career.

Jim’s sleep deprived brain felt like it was overheating trying to keep up with his own emotions. And with every blink, his eyes burned a little more.

“Do you need help, Jim?” went Strickler in such a helpful tone it made Jim’s skin crawl. The audacity to try and be nice after everything that’s happened. “Are you alrig-”

“No. I mean, _yes_.” strained Jim, “Let’s…let’s just eat. Okay?”

“Indeed.” chirped the changeling, “Oh, hang on. Napkins.”

And to Jim’s absolute horror, he watched as Strickler easily navigated his kitchen space. Heading directly to where the napkins were kept without so much as a misstep.

“There we are.” went Strickler with valorous cheer. “Ready to tuck in.”

“Yeah.” said Jim, placing the plates. Feeling as though he were experiencing what was happening in his kitchen distantly, through a telescope.

Strickler was the first to start eating. It ought to have taken the changeling sooner to notice that the air had changed as quickly as an impatient kid trying to draw with an etch -a - sketch.

The biggest clue something was indeed off, was Jim not eating. But rather staring at him.

The changeling looked at his sandwich then Jim’s untouched sandwich. And, as a knee jerk reaction, ran through their entire discussion in the kitchen. Strickler’s chewing slowed to a stop. While an entire moment to moment breakdown, contemplating when, if ever, Jim might have slipped something into his food.

Yet in Strickler’s heart of hearts, the changeling knew Jim had done nothing to tamper with the food. With an internal curse to have ever doubted Jim, Strickler swallowed the rest of his bite.

“Jim? Your sandwich will get cold.”

“It’s okay.”

Strickler’s mouth twitched from side to side, as though he were balancing his pipe on his lip, or wiggling a mustache that wasn’t there. The changeling took another bite of his sandwich. Contemplating as he tasted the oil soaked bread and cheese, the juice of the tomato and the freshness of basil leaves balanced with the crunch of various amounts of peppercorn.

To no one’s surprise, it was a damn good sandwich.

It inspired the changeling to ask, in hopes of continued amicable conversation, “Has, ah, Blinky ever tasted your cooking?”

“Hu?”

“Blinky, while he was waltzing about as a human. Did he ever get the chance to taste your cooking?”

“Um…no…” Jim’s brows furrowed in realization, “No, I guess not.” the teen’s eyes slightly bulged as another realization came to Jim. Blinky who was more deserving to taste his food never did get the chance to eat it.

Jim felt a want to throw something. But only pursed his lips.

Imagine a kettle. An emotional kettle, where with every attempt at kindness, only fueled the burner under the kettle all the more. And this kettle. This Jim Lake shaped kettle, was very ready to boil. Especially after realizing he was on the stove top this whole time.

“Oh that’s a criminal shame.” said Strickler sincerely. Though it could easily be taken as insincere with the changeling’s natural dry tone.

“Yeah… _criminal_.”

“Well if it happened once, who knows. Perhaps it can happen again. Blinky and Humanity Round Two Electric Boogaloo.” snorted Strickler with a hopeful attempt at a contagious laugh.

Jim didn’t laugh.

A bit of mozzarella slid out of Strickler’s sandwich. Landing as sadly as his attempt at good humor.

“Yes well…” Strickler cleared his throat, and fumbled to put the mozzarella back in the sandwich. “I’ll, ah, right. When this whole thing is over I’ll leave a note for Merideth- have you had the chance to meet her? Erm, no suppose not. She’s a very competent councilor.” Strickler paused, glancing at Jim.

But Jim remained as stoic as a drowsy cow. A cow left in a field goggling and wondering why no one is taking care of the barn that’s on fire.

Strickler continued, “No matter, I’ll leave her a note to start rounding up a few potential colleges that might interest you. With _strong_ leanings towards the culinary of course.”

“Ah-huh.”

“You know,” went Strickler with awkwardly forced lightness. Hopeful Jim will start responding again. “you could end up hosting a dinner party for graduation - or, erm, some sort of celebration. You’d need help depending on how many courses and portions. Toby could be a great candidate, or the ever competent Claire. Perhaps not your mother, as much as I care about her she is a bit of a disaster in the kitchen. Although I will trust her when it comes to whip cream- do you remember the pie she made?” Strickler snorted with a laugh, hitting the table lightly like an old chum. “While we [snort] fought? Very good form by the way. How Barbara didn’t notice is beyond me. The focus on that woman when she sets out to do something, astounding. Must help in the operating room. I’d say theater but those are slowly not being used as much.”

The more Strickler talked with obvious fondness the more Jim’s face soured like spoiled milk. Until finally Jim’s stomach curdled. 

It was the unintended mention of his mother that was the last straw for the frustrated sleep deprived teen. That emotional kettle was whistling more than ever now.

Even if Strickler didn’t mean anything malicious by it - it stung - it stung like Strickler’s presence stung. Like a constant sharp bitter wind. A reminder.

A reminder of how much Jim used to look up to him. A reminder of how foolish he felt to have ever looked up to him. A reminder of _another_ betrayal by a paternal father figure.

And Jim, angry, tired, and young, wanted Strickler to feel a sting. If it couldn’t be physical what remained was the emotional - so Jim went for the only other thing (aside from his mother) that Jim _knew_ Strickler felt strongly about.

And it wasn’t Napoleon short jokes.

“You know.” smiled Jim with a touch of acidic frost in his blue eyes, “I did a bit of digging in Blinky’s library about Shigir.”

“Did you now?” perked up Strickler, delighted.

“Yeah, came up while we were looking for more info on the Triumbric stones.”

“I’m surprised there was anything written at all! That’s _incredibly_ rare, though not impossible. How curious.”

Jim made a non committal sound. He looked away from Strickler’s smiling face “Yeeaah, we found a nursery rhyme and a story to boot. KnotEnrique confirmed it.”

Strickler should have felt something was amiss in these statements. For one, troll knowledge on Shigir was bound to be contorted. And secondly, it was known KnotEnrique knew little of Shigir.

Yet in some recessive instinct, Strickler wanted to believe that the ever studious Blinky, brother of Dictatious, would hold a knowledgeable variety in his library. So the changeling was gleeful to accept such a possibility at face value. Hopeful even.

And with that Strickler leaned forward. Hands itching, eager to hear more. “Did you bring it with you?”

“No…no, it’s still saved in Blinky’s library. Didn’t want to risk it falling out of my bag.”

“Ah. Wise move. Why the concept of zipping up your bags escapes you and your friends is beyond me.”

“-So, Shigir-” Jim said hurriedly, feeling a tangent about to happen. Not wanting to loose his nerve in dealing an emotional blow.

“Yes! Who wrote it? When was it written? Why would trolls- well, did you read the preface? Was there one? The academic questions we must persistently ask ourselves.”

“Y-yeah I…don’t remember all that…but the story was…” Jim looked at his former teacher. Then the napkin, then the lack of the Inferna Copula worn on his hands, and finally that smarmy cheerful face he once looked up to so much. “..A little out of left field..” Anger prickled at the tired teen’s eyes. And Jim pushed his plate away to also lean forward and mirror Strickler “It went a little something like this…”

There is a level of anxiety that surfaces when making something up on the spot. Sometimes (although not limited to) it’s a bit like ripping off a band-aid. The lie is told, short and sweet and to the point. And the world awkwardly continues to spin with a pin pricked after thought of ‘did I get away with it?’. But that’s quickly forgotten.

Other times it’s like thawing out a frozen meal. Slow, potentially painful, and with the curious feeling the dead absent eyes of the defrosting fish might not be as absent as you’d like to imagine.

And then there are times it feels like the water level in a video game.

The bets are open as to what Jim is about to experience.

“Once upon a time” started Jim, feeling brave in his anger. As what good story didn’t start with such famous four words? “In the land of…Lah, there’s a troll about to be duped.

“His name was Ji- Jiumb, and all he wanted was some peace for his family and friends.

“One of those friends was a person he really looked up to. And this, obviously, was Shigir.

“Now Shigir was a cool dude, said some - uh, cool stuff. Probably knew how to kick-flip at some point.

“But kept causing all sorts of trouble for Jiumb. Sometimes without Jiumb knowing, and sometimes straight. to. his. face.

“All while smiling like some smarmy Chuck Jones knock off cartoon. Now what _kind_ of trouble I hear you ask?”

At this point Strickler’s empty plate was already pushed aside. The changeling sat very still, and very quiet.

“I’m glad you asked!” rejoiced Jim, “Cause these ‘tricks’ aren’t the fun sugary kind with an ‘x’.

“There’s the time Shigir avoided being frisbee-ed and coming clean to his, uh, tricks.

“The time he sicked his super scary co-workers on Jiumb to ki- kick off a game of football that, hah, Jiumb had no idea how to play yet.” Jim paused for a split second, and then yelled with bulging blood shot eyes, “TWICE.” Jim leaned forward presenting the number 2 with his hand as if it was key evidence in a Supreme Court Case. And the more Jim went on, the more animated he became with his arms as he spoke.

“O-or like, the time Shigir set up a paragliding event, on Jiumb’s birthday that ended with disaster and being _struck_! by _Lighting_! HOW he doesn’t have scars? PFF I don’t even know, man. _Magic_. And like, side note? I- Jiumb didn’t even _like_ his birthday to begin with. Okay? So thanks for that.”

“Jim.”

“But wait!” Jim laughed infuriated “There’s, _unfortunately_ , more!!” Decisively he slapped his hands on the table and rose to his feet “Because Shigir just haaaaaad to bring Jiumb’s mother into this. Oh suuuure. While even _admitting_ to Jiumb that he knows how much Jiumb doesn’t want his mother in this mess!”

Strickler lowered his eyes. Gulped in shame. And forced himself to raise his eyes again.

“And Shigir didn’t admit it _just_ once, ohoho noooooo!” Jim furiously rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat, “But multiple times! I mean at first it just seemed like it was all part of a joke, but then Jiumb’s mom was _visibly_ smiling more. Laughing more.

“But that’s all part of the trick isn’t it? The game? The long con? Or maybe, maybe, Shigir really did end up caring. So- congratulations!” Yelled Jim to the air at the disembodied metaphysical concept of Shigir. “You played yourself!” Jim lowered his hands, his chest rising and falling with a sniff, “Which is worse. Cause it just underlines how much he cares only for himself.”

“Jim. I. I’m sor-”

“Hup hup pup! It’s bad luck to interrupt a storyteller. You never know if I’ll DIE.”

“Jim!”

“What?” Jim spat with a challenge, “It’s what Karenna told me. You know she was weirdly helpful. Or are you going to suggest even _that_ was a lie?”

Strickler started to bite the inside of his cheek, but thought better of it.

“Cause I wouldn’t be surprised if it was-”

“That wasn’t a lie. It _is_ considered bad form to interrupt-”

“ANYWAYS so Shigir was hopping around, doing some sort of shenanigan. Misplacing people’s bikes and skateboards, and switching out coke for pepsi, and pepsi for fanta- you know. The usual trickster stuff. Where he came across a clear water-bank. In that Aesop’s fable sort of way.

“And Shigir saw his reflection. And realized it wasn’t really Shigir’s reflection, but the reflection of someone else. Because all this time Shigir’s been perceiving himself one way-when in actuality he was perceived as a boogyman. By stealing kids, hurting trolls, and somehow always getting away with it.

“Because Shigir isn’t really Shigir. Even that was a lie-”

“Atlas.” warned Strickler.

“Oh no. But that was the biggest theft, biggest lie of all. All this time thinking Shigir was one thing, when really it was a troll thing-”

“ _Jim_.”

“Two faced and fake as they come. Shigir realized in his expression the biggest con of all was believing he was Shigir, when in reality he’s _Ligir_. A stolen concept and story like everything else.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re talking about?”

“No! Obviously not! And you know what? I don’t care - I don’t care about _anything_ you have to say. Just say something cryptic and leave it at that. Cause I’m not doing extra credit work for you. Or, or jumping through _word_ hoops, I guess? Whatever. I don’t care!” he repeated. Almost able to convince himself in the process. “I don’t _care_ about you!”

“You’re within your right to be angry at me all you want-”

“Pfff! Hah! PPPPPFF Angry. _Angry_ doesn’t even-”

“-But what you’re rambling about is far bigger - what you’re rambling about is a means to sleep at night or during the day - what you’re rambling about is a means of sanity and coping - what you’re rambling about is, is-!!!” in Strickler’s rising anger the words didn’t come fast enough, his eyes starting to glow like hot coals, “centuries of trying to _survive_ \- and if you have even an _ounce_ of friendship for KnotEnrique you will shut your mouth and listen, boy.”

Defiance was still strong in the teen's expression. Hands clenched in tight fists. His knuckles were nearly white, his tired eyes prickling.

Some of the hardest most mature things a person can do is admit they crossed a line. That they themselves were in the wrong.

The pair of them stared at the other for a while. In that silence Jim, without breaking eye contact, with guilt taking over his angry eyes, slowly sat down.

Strickler pushed the plated sandwich closer to the teen. The illuminated yellow hue timing in the changelings eyes. Jim was young. Jim was tired and frustrated. And even the best, kindest kids had their moments. After years of teaching, Strickler knew this well. And Strickler, forgave him.

The changeling released a shaky exhale, “I know I’ve done you a great disservice. I..I accept that. And that is on _me_. At the same time, that doesn’t excuse poking fun at…at something you don’t understand. Not that I was very helpful on that front either.” Strickler admitted. “So I’ll try and remedy that. Remedy all that I can…” Strickler frowned. Trailing off. For sometimes rectifying past deeds is a Herculean feat in and of itself. With courage, and with the full knowledge Jim was in his right to say no, Strickler asked, “Will you listen to me?”

Jim’s eyes slid to the side. His feet overlapping where he sat. To the changeling’s fear, the teen considered saying ‘no’. For quite some time, actually. And finally, Jim made his choice. Nodding ‘yes’ with a frown.

"This." started Strickler, "is the tale of Shigir Ideale. Shigir the first, the ideal. How he and we came to be. This is the origin, and our beginning."

Jim quietly ate, and listened.

"Not a single half-breed knows how we came to be created. It is the Gumm-Gumms and the Pale Lady's best kept secret. Because of this the tale of Shigir's birth is perhaps the most diverse - filled with variants from retelling. An amalgamation of collected details of what little we changelings remember of, The _Process_.

"This is the tale I will tell you Trollhunter Jim Lake. So you may better understand, and better learn...For starters.” Strickler self interrupted. Adding a verbal footnote to his own storytelling.

A tone which Jim recognized very well from class. The teen slouched a little.

“I know. Excuse the academics, but it’s important. Especially if you’re lucky enough to hear a Shigir story from another changeling.

“There are some, unspoken rules. You’ve already encountered one; don’t interrupt. Which is really; don’t go off telling a story if there’s already someone telling a story. 

“The other that is critical to understand is that, Shigir, to put it plainly, is genderfluid.”

Jim sat up in interest.

“Shigir stands for many things for changelings. Most prominently, as the ideal. The perfect changeling.

“But perfection is…subjective. Which is why there are just as many empowering tales as there are morality ones. Ones that speak of following certain rules, or else.”

“What does that have to do with being genderfluid?” went Jim with half a mouth full of food.

“I’m glad you asked.” smiled Strickler “Because Shigir is more important than the occasional self policing story. Shigir Ideale is the ideal hope that things will be alright. Sometimes even a reflection of ideals.

“Shigir exists as what the changeling needs them to be to keep marching forward. From the changeling that follows the Pale Lady to the ’T’, to Lord and Master of their own tricks - always managing to survive their shenanigans.

“It depends on what a changeling needs in that moment. A means of…explaining to ourselves what no one has bothered to explain.

“How we’re created being one of them. Why we do what we do being others.

“A means of self-projecting just as much as a means of escapism. And because of that Shigir _tends_ to take on the pronouns of the storyteller.

“Does it always happen? No. But that’s up to the changeling.

“So, for example, if you ever hear Karenna tell a story there’s equally enough of a chance you’ll hear Shigir with she/her pronouns as any other pronouns.

“Oh that’s..pretty neat actually.”

Strickler restrained himself from jumping up and down excitedly. “ _Indeed_.”

It was Jim who started to wiggle with excitement as he came to realize with a gasp, “Sheik!”

“Um?”

“Just like Sheik! From the Legend of Zelda?? I mean it’s a pretty well accepted idea that Sheik is genderfluid, everyone has their own stance on it.”

Strickler squinted and pinched his lower lip thoughtfully. Racking his mind to search for why that sounded familiar. Certainly he heard it referenced in school once or twice. Or a trillion times since 1986.

“GunRobot makes several homages to it. Especially with the newer games. Come on, you had to have heard it. Link?? Zelda?? Ganon??”

“It…ah, does sound familiar. I’m sure I must have..”

“The triforce???” At this point Jim started half singing the first few bars of the game franchise’s theme.

“Zelda’s the hero, right?”

Jim made an incorrect buzzer sound. Which quickly felt inappropriate to the teen. Especially after his previous blow up. “I’ll put a pin on it…” then Jim added, rather quietly, “sorry.”

“That’s quite alright.” said Strickler, meaning it as well. “I’m glad you’re able to find connections to relate. I’ll, be sure to ask more later on.”

Jim gave a shy shrug.

“In a more sonorous academic sense it boils down to the fluidity of storytelling how it’s linked with the storyteller and listener. Not to mention an anthropological peek that the gender binary isn’t as prominent as it is in current human society.

“Or to put it in a less academic sense..”

“Yes please.” pointed Jim while blinking one eye at a time. A bit of his sandwich slipped as well.

“What is gender compared to the hope and allegory of cunning and trickery? Shigir is just as much them, she, or he as they are _us_. Shigir Ideale is just as much an aspiration to changelings as they are a reflection. They are the ideal just as much as we strive to be the best version of ourselves. Does..” awkwardly Strickler scratched his palm. Realizing he might have gotten carried away in his footnote. “does that make sense?”

“Yeah…I think so.” Jim scratched the side of his nose, “Shigir is gender fluid and their pronouns are up to the storyteller?”

“Yes.” Strickler smiled hopefully. “Then on that note, and without further ado, the Tale of Shigir the First;

“The birth of Shigir was that of circumstance.

“It occurred before your time. And _long_ before my time. When the world was still new, and organisms were still learning to coexist.

“Trolls were once unified, you see, but like the great tectonic plates, war and division occurred. Each thinking their side was in the right. That their side would inevitably win. They pushed and shoved and reshaped themselves.

“One of these factions was that of a troll known as the Great General.

“He was a curious general, much loved by those who followed him. And severely strict. The Great General promised many things for his people, but like many big promises faltered in trying to keep them.

“The general’s decedents would later be known as Gumm-Gumms. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

“One night the Great General paced and paced about his tent, occasionally eyeing his plans for the following night’s attack. The stalemate between the advisory bringing strain on his forces, and lowering moral.

“The sun’s first rays were starting to rise over the distant hims, and with it, long reaching shadows that slithered over the land like adders through a field of corpses.

“These shadows entered into the Great General’s tent, touching a small malachite statue within his tent. Of which the eyes lit alive like glinting copper, and began to whisper to that Great General, ‘Greetings Great General, O Mountain of the North. I have observed your battles and seen your strife.’

“ ‘Who’s this? Who speaks unannounced in my tent?’ Bellowed the General taking up his long blade. He looked everywhere, but no other troll could be seen.

“However, it wasn’t a troll that had entered into his tent.

“The malachite statue glinted again, and laughed very amused, ‘Peace General. You are correct. I did come unannounced. Which is most unusual for a Queen.’

“ ‘A Queen?’ repeated the General.

“If statues could smile, this statue did. ‘Yes. I am a being of an Olde World. A being of great power, and could be placing my interest in far more interesting things - and _yet_ I can’t help but notice such _wasted_ potential.’

“The Great General leaned forward and exhaled a snort from his nose onto the malachite statue. ‘What do you know of _my_ potential, Little Green Queen?’

“A light then began to radiate from the malachite statue, shimmering in black and white with such a force it knocked the Great General onto the floor. Those watchful copper eyes glinting like coals. ‘I know that you are an unwise creature that lacks direction. That is causing your forces to dwindle to pebbles. You’re running out of resources. You’re stuck in a stalemate Great General.’ the smile on the malachite statue would somehow stretch with amusement, ‘You could use some aid. An aid of which I can give. For I know how you feel Great General, I too yearn to return to a world I recognize as my own. I, too, am unsatisfied.

“Now there was a reason the General was considered Great, and in all his cunning he asked the Queen, ‘And what do you gain from reaching out to me?’

“A cold laugh followed like water over stones, ‘An ally.’ She said ‘Great as we are on our own, together we shall be indomitable.

“The General paused, he had fought too many battles to not have learned that there is no such thing as indomitable. Especially since many of his opponents were once called and considered asindomitable.”

Jim lifted his hand and sandwich like a type of scholastic referee.

Strickler’s mouth twitched in an amused way. “Yes, Jim?”

“So the General is basically Gunmar - right? Like, is that what this is alluding to?”

“It is a popular thought to associate the two. And then there are those who would rather associate the Great General with Orlagk.”

“Who?”

“The warlord before Gunmar took over. The one Gunmar erm,” Strickler drew a finger across his neck, “replaced.”

“Oh. You could just say killed, dude.” said the teen who had more near death encounters than birthdays, “Or was that a set up to a guillotine joke?”

“No, not this time. Although the final blow was struck methodically.”

Jim squinted at Strickler, reminded of what Karenna said about age. “Were you…there?”

“Oh _Heavens_ no!” laughed Strickler, “I’m not that old hoho! _Far_ before my time.” 

Jim nodded his head, and bit into his sandwich. The crunch of the grilled bread was as loud as it was satisfying. “So,” went Jim like a lazy chipmunk, “what’s your take?”

“I’m sorry?”

“On the Great General. Who do you associate him as?”

“Ah.” Strickler folded his hands together, and rubbed his knuckles distractedly. It wasn’t really a question changelings had the liberty to bring up out in the open. Usually left to the interpretation of the listener. “I see.” the changeling frowned, realizing he had never given it too much thought. Not recently ay least. “There was a time, a much younger time mind, that I would have considered the Great General and Gunmar one and the same..”

“Buuuuut?” leaned Jim, resting the sandwich against his plate.

Walter Strickler smiled softly, “As much as trolls might try and convince you otherwise, after serving under him…he’s just a troll, Jim. A dangerous brutal troll that can die like any other.” Strickler frowned and rubbed the back of his neck and jawline thoughtfully.

Jim sat back in his chair, blinking. Letting the words sink in, before leaning forward again, “That’s not really an answer.”

“It isn’t, is it? Well, if I _had_ to choose. I suppose I’d associate the Great General with Orlagk. He’s farther back in history to be made a character of, like Johnny Appleseed…”

“Or the Headless Horseman?”

Strickler snorted a guffaw, enjoying a private joke about a certain Hessian polymorph. “Yes, I suppose so. But like all history-”

“It should be learned not romanticized.” recited Jim in the same monotonous tone of one who has heard his history teacher engrain the phrase in his lesson plans for over two scholastic years.

“Precisely.” went Strickler, doing nothing to hide his pride. The changeling shifted in his chair, transitioning back to the Shigir story at hand, “And so as our story goes, the Great General thought of his previous battles. How his foes were once called indomitable, before slaying them under his blade.

“Armed with this knowledge the Great General turned away the Pale Lady’s offer.

“ ‘You whisper well’ said the Great General, ‘But that alluring silver tongue hides more than you are letting on.’ ”

Jim made a face.

“Not like _that_! As a turn of phrase.” Strickler ran his hand over his face with a sigh. And wondered if this was, in some way, karma for all the times he interrupted the changelings who were telling stories when he was young. “As in, the General knew there was more behind the Pale Lady’s offer.

“And the Great General was right.

“ ‘You are wise to point this out.’ said the Pale Lady within the malachite statue.

“ ‘What price will I pay for our union? What do you want?’

“ ‘My wants span farther than your lifespan Great General. Grander and more ineffable than your imagination.’ explained the Pale Lady. And the statue’s eyes glowed in such a way that it sent a shiver up the Great General’s spine. And he knew, of all things She had said, this was true.

“ ‘But for those plans to succeed I need to rebuild my Court. That, is where you come in Great General. You supply me the young. The desolate, those abandoned by mother, and father, and caretaker alike- And I will provide them a home, and _you_ soldiers for your campaigns.’”

Strickler paused, wondering if this would be something Jim would interject on as well.

But the teen stayed pensively silent on this matter.

“There was much discourse between the Great General and the Pale Lady, enough to fill several stories, and finally the two came to an agreement in the terms of their partnership.

“It was a particularly sunny day, and clear night when the first batch of whelps were brought to the Pale Lady. A mix of the strongest and loneliest.

“Whelps that would later be transformed into characters our hero would meet and interact with in stories to come.

“From Skülok the Iron Maiden. To Valÿ the One Eyed Teacher of Lord Shigir with her fearful Rigor-Mortis spear. To the dreaded-”

“Wait wait, how is Shigir the first, if they have a teacher?”

“The tales describe that there’s a difference in the transformation process. How long each of them took to…erm…” Strickler looked around the kitchen to think of the right word. “..cook?”

Jim still looked confused, and a little perturbed.

“I’ll explain.

“You see in all Her knowing of seeing the past and present and future-”

“Kinda op, but okay.”

“Indeed. The Pale Lady looked at Her first batch of whelps and knew what she needed was yet to be found. She knew that admits those still untouched, and unaltered whelps She had yet to find that missing something.

“The Pale Lady, in all Her unknown mysticism, felt unsatisfied and restless.

“So that Queen from a land unknown to us fair folk took to walking across the land.

“She walked and walked passing mountains, and rock formations of all sorts. Deserts and beaches, until she came across a forgotten battlefield.

“A battlefield that held the corpses and ruins of both troll and humans alike. And in that field She found two babes.

“Now some say their names were sewn onto their clothes, while others say the Pale Lady named them herself. Or even that She already knew what their names would become.

“All the same the Pale Lady saw these small whelps and knew she found Shigir.

“The Pale Lady scooped them into Her arms, and brought them both into Her hutch. To feed and nurture until neither were no longer malnourished.

“Her heart heavy with what this war costed, and with knowledge of the strife that has yet to come set to work, choosing these babes to be Her first of many to one day be housed in Her Court.

“The Pale Lady used the bones of old as combs for the babes’s hair, and flutes to sing them to sleep. The air of gaseous caverns to dry them both off and further deepen their sleep. And the purest plasma-”

“Lightning?”

“Yes.” confirmed the changeling, “The purest lightening from a storm that lasted three days to warm their baths.

“Until the bath water was as white as milk.

“The Pale Lady, kissing each babe, spoke their real name one last time. For only one of the whelps would get to keep their name.” Strickler frowned, his brow creasing as he tried to remember, “Visions would dance before their eyes and slowly they’d…descend into the milky white waters. Holding the other’s hand, and heart, until time and sense lost meaning. Until their grasp would wane, and, together, would drift apart from the other.

“And their lungs would fill with..” Strickler glanced at Jim, and scratched his chin. Feeling the stubble now growing, on a face that, essentially, wasn’t his own. “..water..and..time and sense would lost meaning…and..”

“You, said that already.” said Jim.

But Strickler didn’t notice as he continued, “..and the bone white waters grew, darker, the deeper they descended, and…”

“Strickler?”

The changeling leaned on the table, one hand scratching into the surface. As if that was a secret means of escape. “..and…somehow…it smelled of… sulfur..?”

“Hey, uh..Strickler?”

The changeling’s eyes, usually inhumanly still, continued to shift with straining pupils. Anxiety filling his own lungs, “..Yes, sulfur. There was sulfur. Liquid sulfur? It, burned the nostrils, and fingerprints-claws, and everything was…weightless..and..”

“Mr. Strickler?”

 _That’s not my name_ , thought the changeling distantly, _I don’t have one. I’ll never have one. But that one isn’t mine. It’s borrowed, it’s all borrowed_.

A hand rested on the changeling’s, and the dual faced creature gasped as if finally breaching water. He heaved, and his eyes fluttered.

Slowly the changeling retracted his hand from under Jim’s and held it in his other. Rubbing it in a way to remind himself that the feeling the hand felt came with the body he was attached to.

The bags under the teen’s eyes made Jim look even more worried, and sad.

“Present!” the changeling forced a smile, and an upbeat tone to his voice. “Sorry. Got a bit, um, lost in thought there.” His voice felt a little higher in register as well. As if he forgot what an exhale was. “Tea?”

“I’m..good. You good?”

“ _That’s_ still up for debate I’m afraid.” cracked the changeling as he pushed himself away from the table to put the kettle on again.

“Right.” Jim sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, following the changeling with his eyes. “I meant are _you_ okay.”

“Ah.” The changeling tapped his fingers on the countertop as if he were playing scales on the piano before turning back around with a sniff. “Yes well.” The changeling considered lying for a moment. But after a steady exhale, and realizing that probably wouldn’t be the best ‘role model’ move, the changeling called Walter Strickler, relented. “In a very vague way. Not, completely…it’s, heh, been a while since I’ve told this story I suppose. And with every re-telling there’s always..something new.”

“Oh..you..don’t have to-”

“Nonsense, the rough part is over with anyways!”

“Does…every changeling go through that?”

“What, strange trances?”

“Yes, and…well…that weird bath thing..”

Strickler frowned, and leaned against the counter as if the wind and energy to bravely look chipper was knocked out of him. “There’s some sort of variation. It’s why the origin of Shigir is so..varied depending on the teller. It’s cobbled together from what the storyteller remembers of their own…process, and what they heard from others. It’s all vague details anyway. For all I, or anyone knows it could very well be some weird collective dream.”

Jim nodded sleepily. With a drowsy malcontent frown.

“Come now.” cheered Strickler pushing Jim’s plate a little closer, “A wager. Let’s see if I can finish the story by the time you finish the sandwich, hm?”

“Righty-oooooo”

Strickler rubbed one of his eyebrows and thought how best to neatly wrap up the story, and convince Jim to get some rest. “So the bath..legends say it is the final step to the changeling process.

“And our hero took his sweet time in the unknown waters.

“So much so that the Pale Lady grew impatient with waiting, and decided to go ahead and work Her magic on the other whelps.”

“The ones those Gumm-Gumms brought?”

“Yes. And from it, many characters from the Shigir stories came about.”

“Like the one eyed teacher person?” Jim guessed again, once again impersonating a chipmunk.

“Valÿ, Yes. As well as the dreaded being who would later be known as the Green Knight. That thief of names. The Traitorous Impure.”

Never did Jim hear the word ‘impure’ said with such enjoyment and rebellion.

“I cannot say his full name, lest I call him here. Or so the superstition goes.

“And with such an auspicious night ahead of us, I’ll refrain from pressing any such luck. But there is safety in saying half his name. That is; Bredbeddle the Green Knight. He who was once named Ebb.

“Whom there are many stories of from before Shigir finished his process.

“Ebb was the Pale Lady’s favorite before Shigir. And many say Ebb would have continued to be the Pale Lady’s favorite had he not stolen back his True Name.

“The True Name being what changeling names originally were before the process.” explained Strickler quickly. “But that’s all explained in another tale, for another time.

“In the meantime, think of the Green Knight as a changeling boogyman. A changeling who went against his Lady Creator and,” the smile slowly faded from Strickler’s mouth, “was made a _stern_ example of.” the changeling gulped, but pressed on bravely, “But there is duality in everything regarding changelings. Even their villains. For within the boogyman archetype that not only waits for a changeling to slip up, but sometimes is the very reason they slip up…there is also those who claim him to be a guide to the Pale Lady’s court.”

“Wait he still serves the Pale Lady even after, uh, tricking her? Being called a traitor and…everything?”

“Some bonds are hard to sever.”

The kettle started to whistle again, and Strickler went to work to pour himself some tea as he spoke on. “And as much as I’d enjoy going on about the complexity of Bredbeddle the Green Knight, _this_ is about Shigir. And I _am_ racing against your last three bites of your sandwich.” smirked the changeling.

Jim looked down at his nearly finished sandwich, a soft “Oh yeah!” escaping the teen.

“Shigir’s changing process in the bath lasted for so long, that the Pale Lady _nearly_ forgot about him.

“The bathing cauldron was left unattended for so long, spiders would nest in the hooks. And these spiders would tell their children and their children’s children of the hero that was, erm, nearly al dente ready.”

Jim snorted in such a way crumbs fell out of his mouth. Sleepily the teen would rub his mouth and nose with the back of his hand.

“These spiders were waiting for so long that a full set of clothes was already waiting for Shigir.

“But still Shigir would not emerge. And the bar the bathing cauldron was hooked onto began to rust, until it fell and rolled away.

“When the Pale Lady ran in to hear the commotion. The babe inside was gone.

“The Pale Lady then ran to where all the rookery- and nursery to see where the familiars were coddled and kept. By then the Pale Lady’s hutch had become a grand palace of malachite and stone. And her halls were armed with guards.

“The guards gawked seeing the Pale Lady run about her grand castle. Although the Shigir’s familiar was found. Shigir himself was no where to be found.

“For you see, during that long process Shigir had so much time to think of so much mischief our hero felt like he had to start causing trouble as soon as possible.

“And so, for this reason, Shigir decided to emerge not from the bathing cauldron, but from a far off bog. Between the reads and marsh and cattails.

“Sure our hero was confused and alone, coughing up liquid from his lungs. But the more he coughed the more he laughed. Throwing back his head.

“Now any interpretation is correct upon imagining Shigir. For Shigir is known to mold and shift with any clever disguise he needs for his tricks. But Shigir always has one constant physical feature, teeth as white as starlight.

“And as Shigir laughed, every magpie around the bog sighed.

“Some would flutter towards Shigir in hopes of bartering for his shiny teeth. Or to strike deals and favors. Shigir found this most entertaining. And felt the urge to go through with deals itch away at his bones and hands.

“ ‘Very well!’ chortled Shigir to a magpie that landed on his knee. ‘I’ll boon you a tooth. And later I shall collect a boon from you!’

“But with every tooth he parted with, a part of Shigir felt sad.

“On his fourth tooth he parted with, the young changeling realized he wished to keep the rest of his teeth and would make no more dealings with magpies. For now at least.

“He wanted parts of his lost teeth so much, that Shigir tried to coax deals with the magpies.

“But the magpies only thought of how brilliant the teeth in their possession were, and refused.

“Shigir grew angry at this, and would jump and branches to catch the birds. But our swift hero had much to learn before he’d become the swift hero we know of.

“He might have been clever enough to cause mischief with the Pale Lady from the get go and emerge from a different water source than the intended bath cauldron. But not clever enough to know it was futile to jump at what can fly.

“ ‘Fine then!’ went Shigir in childish temperament, ‘I still have more teeth! Shame on me for giving something away so easily. And shame on you for using my naiveté.’

“The magpies swooped and cawed in their laughter. And would pick fights amongst themselves to try and steal the starlight teeth Shigir traded away.

“Young Shigir observed this and decided, ‘you are a foolish bunch’ and turned away. to a meadow. Leaving the magpies to squabble over their traded starlight.

“Some were quick enough to hide away their toothy boons, others ate the teeth and let the starlight brightens mark their feathers. And others would lose the teeth in their fighting and be lost to the forrest floor, where later a tooth like seed would form.

“From then on the magpies would always sigh, and sometimes follow Shigir in hopes he’d give up more of his starlight teeth.

“In the meantime the lone changeling ogled and awed at the strange new world before him. Knowing it had been waiting for him for so long.

“There was an anxious feeling to go forth and live in that world as much as possible. To try and catch up with his other brothers and sisters and siblings who had finished their process before him.

“The duality of being the first, yet feeling so far behind.

“And so the changeling tore through the world plotting all sorts of tricks and mischief, picking up along the way his trusty shepherd’s crook that Shigir would later be famous for carrying.

“Weaving clothes from what he could find, and sleeping as freely as a cat in witch hazel.

“For a while the mountains, and meadows, ponds, and trees were Shigir’s teachers. But they could not fill the lingering anger of having given up his teeth. And as deep and vast as their lessons can be, some lessons take years upon years to understand. Especially the lessons of nature.

“And Shigir was young, and with youth came impatience. So, our hero made a grass knot ball and kicked it about. Using his feet and shoulders and crook to knock it and balance it.

“The grass knot was struck so hard the earth would part to avoid being hit.

“It caused such an almighty ruckus that it disturbed a nearby human who was tending to his harvest.

“ ‘Stop this!’ called the farmer, ‘you’ll ruin the harvest and all that I’ve sowed in the earth!’

“But still Shigir continued. And the farmer grew angrier. So much so he picked up his stick and headed towards the ruckus to give whoever it was a stern talking to.

“Never in the farmer’s dreams did he think he’d find a curious child so young messing about.

“To help imagine such an absurdity…imagine…well..” Strickler paused for a moment in thought, “Imagine a changeling KnotEnrique’s age and size, in both troll and human form with an adult sized shepherd’s crook, and a grass knot the size of a foot-er- soccer ball.”

“Pppfff.”

“Precisely!” smirked Strickler with a snap of his finger, “The farmer was reasonably shocked at the sight.

“ ‘What strange manner of creature are you?’

“ ‘Creature?’ huffed Shigir, ‘Is that how you great someone?’ asked Shigir who contemplated very seriously whacking the grass knot at the farmer.

“ ‘You’re right. Forgive me. For you’re not a sight to be seen every day.’

“Shigir found flattery in this, and stopped trying to balance the grass knot. Instead he struck a very valiant pose with his crook. ‘You’re right!’

“But all this did was remind our hero of the teeth he traded away so easily. To which Shigir gave an almighty pout that it struck the farmer’s heart.

“ ‘How now little one. You were so proud before. Why do you frown?’

“And Shigir sniffled and beckoned the farmer over. And there on the grass he told the farmer of how heavy his heart felt, regretting how easily he traded his teeth.

“ ‘That is sad indeed.’ agreed the farmer, ‘But what’s gone is gone. A deal is, unfortunately a deal.’

“ ‘I don’t have to keep my word. I could steal them back!’

“ ‘Perhaps.’ frowned the farmer, ‘But there is little sense in starting a fight with a magpie. They have their own magic too, you know. And that could cause a cycle of trouble you won’t be able to stop later. No no Shigir, heed my words; it is sad that you regret giving up your teeth so easily, but you do still have the rest of your starlight teeth. Some parts of yourself will never return, but there is growth in that too.’

“Shigir thought hard of this, but continued to pout with his head on his knees.

“The farmer took sympathy on the little half-breed, and patted his back, ‘Come little one, stay with me for a while. Be my guest in my house and home. Fill your stomach with good bread and cheese and peppers and you will feel better. You’re welcome to my home if you like. I will teach you all sorts of things, and perhaps you will think of a way to get the rest of your teeth back.’

“ ‘That…does sound nice.’ admitted Shigir.

“ ‘You’ll be expected to help about the house as well.’ cautioned the farmer. ‘Even as my guest.’

“ ‘Oh that’s alright. For one good dead deserves another. And I do enjoy learning a new trick.’

“The farmer smiled at this, and hand in hand they left the meadow and the forest’s edge to live together. Thus having Shigir be the first changeling to grow along side humans, unlike his other siblings who emerged directly from their bath cauldrons.

“Shigir grew to learn many things from the farmer and his family. And surprisingly they grew to love each other deeply. Which is a very lucky thing for a changeling.

“And as Shigir lived there and grew he thought less and less of what he lost when he first emerged from the process and more of what he learned and gained from the farmer.

“So much so he forgave the magpies, and thought of the whole ordeal like a fun tale to tell.

“Many stories would be born from Shigir’s time before the Pale Lady’s court. Some call the this time Shigir’s early years.  
“And as the Pale Lady searched and called for Shigir. Unable to find that wily fox who did not know he was being called to, aside from the tugging at that indescribable something all changelings face.

“Our hero would freely click his heals and vault himself with his crook to see what new mischief he could cause, and what new trick he could learn just beyond the horizon.

“And what a horizon!

“From the tale of how he became Lord- officially entering into the Pale Lady’s court, to his encounter with the human Altai where he’d befriend and learn many human tricks of ingenuity from, to his dealings with the Great General.”

Jim by then was resting his chin in his palm with half lidded eyes, and a soft smirk. His plate empty. 

“And of course who could forget Shigir’s famous encounters and growing friendship with the Volcanic Ohou.” went Strickler thinking he ought to wrap things up.

“Oooh, aaaaw.” smiled Jim.

Strickler smiled, it was clear Jim was at his limit. The former history teacher knew when someone was going to drift off. And this was a rest long since coming.

Quietly Strickler went to remove the plates from the table to place in the sink.

“But that’s all and well,” he said with decided finality, “but for another time.”

Jim blinked slowly, then gradually lifted his head, “Another time?”

“Yes, Young Atlas.”

“You _just_ mentioned Ohou. And all you did was reference other stories.”

“Some stories are shorter than others. Don't worry, Ohou deserves a full story in her own right. Think of it like a pilot episode, for getting the basics.” explained Strickler, while Jim didn’t even bother to hide his yawn this time.

“More like a trailer preview.” Jim sat back, and slowly pushed his chair away with a sleepy coy expression.

“I’m sure you’ll experience more in the future.” said Strickler patiently.

“Oh no!!” gasped Jim with a croak.

Strickler jumped at the ready, “What’s the matter?”

Jim frowned and ran a hand over the side of his face, twisting his cheek some, “Maaaan I should have recorded it. That way I could have sent it to KnotEnrique to hear too. Or, or put him on speaker or something. Oh maaaan.” huffed Jim holding back exhausted tears.

“That’s, oh Jim, that’s quite alright.” Strickler’s hand hesitated to place itself paternally on the exasperated teen’s shoulder. The hand hovered slightly, before quickly retracting to clasp the other hand behind him. Strickler gave a small encouraging smile, leaning forward “It gives you the opportunity to tell KnotEnrique yourself.”

“I…I can?” blinked Jim.

“The majesty of verbal storytelling.”

“Even though I..I never went through…” Jim gulped, “The _process_?”

Strickler gave a supportive nod. “And I hope you _never_ will. I’m sure KnotEnrique will appreciate it all the same.”

“I hope so…”

“I know so.”

Jim looked down into his shoes and rubbed the side of his arm. “Thank you…for telling me, even after all I said…it, probably wasn’t easy..it, didn’t look easy the whole time…you know.” occasionally Jim’s eyes flickered back and forth from his shoes to Strickler.

Despite the crinkle on Strickler’s forehead, there was tiny smile on the changeling’s face. He nodded a confidential, “I know.” Appreciative of Jim’s attempt to be discreet on the matter.

“You really didn’t have to, so I..thanks..and…” Jim fidgeted with the sleeve of his sweater, “I’m sorry about what they did to you.”

Strickler was taken aback. In all his years, he couldn’t think of a time _anyone_ tried to apologize about what had been done to him and his fellow half-breed siblings. His eyes prickled some.

“Doesn’t excuse all the bad stuff you did.”

Strickler laughed heartily at that, and nodded his head in agreement. The changeling thumbed his eye with a sniff, “You’re right again, Young Atlas.”

“But it wasn’t fair. To you, and, KnotEnrique, and, the others.”

An opportunistic part of Strickler tried to convince the changeling that now was the best time to sway the Trollhunter. To convince him not to go into the Darklands because of this. To try and persuade Jim now while the iron was hot.

But Jim was barely managing to keep his eyes open. And practically swayed where he stood. And Strickler just didn’t have the heart to try.

All he wanted was for Jim to get some rest now.

“And then I said all those _mean_ things.” continued Jim with a sleepy croak. Eyes redder than a sanguine tomato, “I mean, I..I was angry…but you trusted me..and I just..I trusted y-”

Strickler finally placed a supportive hand on Jim’s shoulder, stabilizing the teen from swaying any more, “Hey, hey it’s alright.”

“It’s not alright.”

“People say things, it happens to the worst, it happens to the best. Even the kindest. You’ve enough weight already on your shoulder’s, Atlas.” 

“But-”

“Then as redemption, I _beseech_ you to get some rest.”

Jim stared at Strickler as if the changeling had suddenly performed a close up magic trick. A magic trick the teen simply _had_ to figure out.

“But…the house..”

“We’re still waiting on materials, Jim!”

“The house has to be perfect…it has to..” after so many hours without sleep it is easy to spiral into what could be considered a tantrum. And Jim Lake felt like he was on the verge of one. Yet despite realizing he was spiraling, couldn’t quite halt how quick his breathing was picking up, or the globs of tears. “Everything is depending on this being perfect. My mom is depending on this.”

“Jim this house, this plan, it could be the most immaculate well thought out put together trick ever made. Or it could very well all end in flames. There are so many variables, it’s _impossible_ to calculate everything when formulating a strategy. Please, _please_ believe me in this.”

“But-”

“Controlling the chaos doesn’t mean micromanaging every detail in a plan. It means realizing that we ought to focus on what we _can_ control. And sometimes ourselves is the only thing we can control. Victory or defeat, should every trap fail all we have is ourselves, and our wits. And how do you plan on being witty if you’re sleep deprived?”

Jim frowned. If his sleeve were a napkin, it would have been torn to shreds. “This has to work though. My mom’s life is at risk…I’m…I’m scared.”

Strickler’s heart was in tiny pieces in his throat. Beside himself. He barely registered himself admitting, “I’m scared too, Jim.”

“Yeah?” went Jim looking up with damp cheeks.

“ _Terrified_.”

Jim sniffled, moderately consoled by the statement. He rubbed his nose, “She’s the only mom I have, Mr. Strickler.”

“And you won’t be able to take care of her, if you don’t take care of yourself first. Do what’s good for you, remember?”

Jim sniffled a few more times with a nod, and leaned into Strickler’s chest in an exhausted display of an armless hug.

The changeling _severely_ doubted Jim would remember this later. All the same, Strickler awkwardly straightened up at the unprompted display of affection. Looking around undeservingly mixed with the prickling fear of being watched. As if Otto or Angor would suddenly burst from an undisclosed corner to point and go, ‘A-Hah! Proof!’

But the changeling dashed such thoughts away giving a pitying sigh and patting Jim’s shoulder. “There, there..” from under his hand Strickler felt Jim’s shoulder shake a bit. Followed with the tell-tale sound of a repressed cry.“It,” Paternally Strickler combed through the teen’s hair, “It’ll be alright.”

“I care about her so much.”

“I know you do.”

“I know you do too..”

“I..yes, I care about your mother.”

“Do…you..?” the question Jim wanted to ask, and had been dying to ask all day died in Jim’s throat. Be it from the sleep, or nerves of hearing the answer.

The question being; D _o you care about me too?_

To some, the answer is an obvious yes. Jim the betrayed, wasn’t some. And alas, some questions unsaid can’t be answered clearly.

“Very much.” went Strickler, still thinking they were talking about Barbara. Oblivious to the question Jim wanted to ask.

Jim screwed his eyes shut.

“Now, for the love of GunRobot,” Strickler stepped away to see Jim’s tear stained face. Parting some of Jim’s hair as a parent would fuss when wondering when was the last time their child had a haircut. “get some rest, Young Atlas.”

Jim legitimately pouted.

“If not for yourself, then for your mother.” Strickler said, directing the teen to start heading towards the living room couch. “But _do_ try to rest for yourself.”

An inert head bob was the most Jim could muster as a response. The teen’s sneakers barely raised off the floor, giving a tiny squeak as Jim walked.

Jim didn’t even question as to how Strickler found the blankets to place on him. Nor did Jim have the energy to be angry about it. He was just too tired. 

Too tired to resent being tucked in, or having his hair brushed aside. The pillows too comfortable to argue with.

Strickler took a step back with his hands on his hips, smiling as fathers do. He wondered when was the last time he was in a position to put a youth to bed.

It had been centuries since he was a private tutor. And even then usually the duty fell on the nurses to take care of his well off student.

There was, of course, the time when Nomura was young.

A tragic encounter in Denmark. A mentorship that lasted longer than anticipated.

Strickler remembered it vividly.

Being accosted by the head of the Janus Order mentorship program.

Himself still hurting from a Napoleonic world. A disgruntled and bitter Valjean to Nomura’s Cosette. And an angry Cosette at that, speaking more with her fists than words. Made of 86% spite. A product of the Romantic era in many senses.

Strickler chortled at the thought.

At not only the memory of an angry young Nomura, but at the thought of such a comparison. Strickler doubted he would have made the comparison if it wasn’t for all the musicals Barbara was introducing him to. Sure he had read the titular work by Victor Hugo, that brick of a tome that Romanticized sewers far more than they should be, but the musical warmed him in ways the book couldn’t.

For starters he got to listen to Barbara explain it with a face that glowed in the special way faces glowed when she spoke of her interests and passions.

In other ways it made him wonder more and more if Nomura listened to as many musicals as well. Her love of opera was no secret, did it extend to musicals as well?

The changeling realized he had been thinking more and more of Nomura since Bular’s death. And, intern, Nomura’s death. It felt easier on the changeling’s conscious to think Nomura dead. Instead of alone in the Darklands, and worst of all; with Gunmar.

With a heavy sigh the changeling left the living room for the garage, to see what trick he could invent while Jim rested.

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAHHH Finally! I've always wanted the reveal of Shigir being gender fluid to occur within an explanation to Jim. 
> 
> It made more sense to me than having a changeling explain it to another changeling. Having Jim as a human proxy of the reader seemed far more realistic. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this far!


End file.
